Wish you were mine

46. Queen's Gambit

PENELOPE

The sky outside was a dusky shade of lavender, the kind that makes you feel like something important should be happening-but nothing was. I was bored. Restless, really. I wandered through the long hallways of Sean's-no, our-house, my footsteps echoing against marble floors that felt too polished, too cold.

Every painting, every artifact screamed wealth, power, perfection. But none of them whispered comfort.

I trailed my fingers along the wall as I turned a corner and stopped by the kitchen doorway. Soft clinking of utensils and the low murmur of conversation spilled out. The staff was busy prepping for dinner, moving around with practiced ease. And just like that-an idea lit up inside me like a spark on dry paper.

Why should Sean have it easy?
He might have signed a contract with me, but I hadn't signed away my pride. If he thinks this is going to be a smooth one-year cruise to convenience, he's in for a storm. He betrayed me-played me like a pawn-and walked me straight into a marriage I never wanted but somehow... always dreamed of. The irony is exhausting.

So fine. We have 365 days together. That's 365 opportunities to drive him insane.

A smile curved on my lips, slow and delicious. I love him. That's what makes this better. I know exactly what he likes, what he hates, what will make him squirm. And I plan to use every bit of that knowledge.

"Everyone, take the evening off," I said sweetly, stepping into the kitchen. "I'll make dinner tonight."

They all paused and stared at me like I'd announced a solar eclipse. Then came the teasing glances, the suppressed smiles. Someone even whispered something that made the others giggle like teenagers. I raised an eyebrow, and just like that-they scattered.

I rolled up my sleeves, tied my hair up, and stood there for a second. Right. Time to cook. I opened the pantry and looked around with the confidence of someone who had only ever mastered one dish.

Spaghetti.

But not just any spaghetti-today, I was going to make two plates. One normal. The other? Laced with enough chili powder to bring a grown man to tears.

By the time the kitchen smelled like garlic, tomato, and mischief, I heard the car pull up outside. My heart skipped-part nerves, part anticipation. I plated the spaghetti, made sure to add a decorative sprinkle of herbs on top to make it look gourmet, and poured two glasses of wine.

As expected, Sean walked in moments later, looking tired, suspicious, and painfully handsome in that black button-down with sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"You cooked?" he asked, warily.

I smiled, saccharine sweet. "Surprised?"

"Very," he said, not moving.

"Don't just stand there. Come on. I made dinner for us," I said, handing him his wine.

He eyed the table like it might explode, then finally sat down on head of the table. My eyes stayed fixed on him like a hawk stalking prey. He twirled the spaghetti around his fork and took the first bite.

Boom.

His eyes widened the moment the first bite touched his tongue. A flicker of panic flashed across his face. His jaw clenched, struggling to chew and swallow at the same time, his Adam's apple bobbing violently as he forced the mouthful down. His hand shot out, trembling slightly as he reached for the wine glass, taking a long, desperate gulp like a man parched in a desert.

I knew this would happen.

He had a notoriously low tolerance for spice. And this spaghetti-this beautifully crafted, deceptively innocent-looking plate-was fire disguised as food. Made just for him, with equal parts love... and rage.